"Then there are some women who can't be bought?" said I, looking
at his glistening eyes.
"Mr. Vibart," said he, "so far as I know, there are two--the Lady
Helen Dunstan and the 'Glorious' Sefton."
"The Lady Sophia Sefton of Cambourne?" said I.
"And--the Lady Helen Dunstan," he repeated.
"Do you know the Lady Sophia Sefton?"
"I have had the honor of dancing with her frequently," he answered.
"And is she so beautiful as they say?"
"She is the handsomest woman in London, one of your black-browed,
deep-eyed goddesses, tall, and gracious, and most nobly shaped;
though, sir, for my own part, I prefer less fire and ice--and more
gentle beauty."
"As, for instance, the Lady Helen Dunstan?" said I.
"Exactly!" nodded Mr. Beverley.
"Referring to the Lady Sophia Sefton," I pursued, "she is a
reigning toast, I believe?"
"Gad, yes! her worshippers are legion, and chief among them his
Royal Highness, and your cousin, Sir Maurice, who has actually
had the temerity to enter the field as the Prince's avowed rival;
no one but 'Buck' Vibart could be so madly rash!"
"A most fortunate lady!" said I.
"Mr. Vibart!" exclaimed my companion, cocking his battered hat
and regarding me with a smouldering eye, "Mr. Vibart, I object to
your tone; the noble Sefton's virtue is proud and high, and above
even the breath of suspicion."
"And yet my cousin would seem to be no laggard in love, and as to
the Prince--his glance is contamination to a woman."
"Sir," returned Mr. Beverley very earnestly, "disabuse your mind
of all unworthy suspicions, I beg; your cousin she laughs to
scorn, and his Royal Highness she had rebuffed as few women have,
hitherto, dared do."
"It would almost seem," said I, after a pause, "that, from what I
have inadvertently learned, my cousin has some dirty work afoot,
though exactly what, I cannot imagine."
"My dear Mr. Vibart, your excellent cousin is forever up to
something or other, and has escaped the well-merited consequences,
more than once, owing to his friendship with, and the favor of
his friend--"
"George?" said I.
"Exactly!" said my companion, raising himself on his elbow, and
nodding: "George."
"Have you ever heard mention of Tom Cragg, the Pugilist?" I
inquired, blowing a cloud of smoke into the warm air.
"I won ten thousand guineas when he knocked out Ted Jarraway of
Swansea," yawned my companion; "a good fighter, but a rogue--like
all the rest of 'em, and a creature of your excellent cousin's."